


The Five Decanters

by DixieDale



Series: The Life and Times of One Peter Newkirk [26]
Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Mild non-graphic intimacy and role-play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 00:47:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14759429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: They'd all been careful with him, supporting him in every way they could to help with the healing.  But at what point does support become a crutch?  When does caring become enablement, and how do you get things back on track?  Whoever thought an adder on the pathway would lead to such weighty considerations!





	The Five Decanters

**Author's Note:**

> If mild intimacy or the discussion of intimacy bothers you, use your own discretion about reading.

It had all started with the snake, Caeide thought later, ruefully. Peter was thoroughly out of charity with her, tense, non-communicative; she knew she had stepped over a line she'd known full well not to cross. It hadn't been intentional; she hadn't intended to say those words in his presence, but she hadn't known he was standing behind her, and she'd let the fatal words slip.

"Look, Robb, you've got to stop showing up like this; someone's going to get hurt, and it just might be you!" She'd turned, to see him staring at her in shock, then he'd looked at the ground where the adder had been coiled, before it wriggled away. He hadn't said a word, just looked at her as if she had betrayed him, and stormed away.

Well, yes, it hasn't been very nice of her, she knew. She made a concerted effort never to say a harsh, even slightly critical word about Robert Hogan, Robb, his former (no, she doubted it would ever be 'former') leader, friend, lover. Not for Hogan's sake, certainly, but because she knew it would hurt Peter if she did so. She and Hogan didn't get along, probably never would; there had been a rivalry there that she hadn't even known about til she made her first visit to Stalag 13, though it had become more than apparent by her last.

Still, that blasted snake had been coming around recently, bothering Maude and Marisol, Peter had almost been bitten, and she'd been surprised at least twice; the stock was getting uneasy, and she was losing patience. She tried to stay as much in harmony with the wildlife around here as she could, though pleased that in general the reptiles tended to stay away, but it was getting serious enough she was ready to take ready action with a hoe, or knife, or pistol, whichever she had in hand. Now, however, after hearing her address the blasted snake with his lover's name, Peter would probably think she was making a deeper statement, other than the simple one that she'd prefer none of them get bit by the venomous reptile.

What could she say, it just looked like a 'Robb'! Something about the eyes, she thought.

***  
She'd refused him. He couldn't believe it! Yes, he was still angry over her petty behavior with that bloody snake, but he'd been angry before over a variety of things, and she'd never refused him before. She'd always before seemed to understand that the sudden anger was part of the healing, and it hadn't caused this kind of a reaction. She'd stood there, last night, pale, hesitant, but drawing her dignity and courage around her, saying, "no, Peter, I don't think so," and retreated to her room, closing the door softly but firmly. At least she hadn't locked it behind her, he thought to himself as he listened for that distinctive click; he was spared that insult. 

It was on the trail down from the stock barns the next morning that he confronted her. "Why?" he demanded.

She cocked one brow at him, and questioned, "why, what?"

"Why did you turn me away last night? You've never before." For a long time he thought she wasn't going to answer him; she turned to lean against the rail of the pasture fence, before she finally told him.

"You were still angry with me, and I was afraid."

He drew back, offended, shocked, "since when are you afraid of me?"

She leaned her head forward, taking a deep breath. {"Do I dare tell him the truth? Perhaps he'd healed enough that he could take just a little of the truth, like exercising a damaged limb toward the end of the healing process. Maybe allowing him to continue with no limits isn't what he really needs, even if it's what he wants."} She ached inside, but answered him.

"I didn't know who you intended to take to your bed." He froze, looking at her as if she was mad! "When it's him, either of them, you are always as gentle as you can be." She smiled up at him, not really a smile, more a twisting of the lips. "You never really touch me then, you know, not in any way that could remind you who is really in the bed; you're not liking to spoil your fantasy. When it's me you're taking in that particular way, how gentle you are, well that depends on how you are feeling toward me at the time. Well, to be sure, you don't so often take me to your bed in that way, it's almost always him, them. This time, as angry as you were with me, I was afraid."

No apologies did she make, she had a right to protect herself and she had done so. Still, perhaps she should have taken the chance; she knew, though, knew she was worth more than that, that she had to place some limits; she was willing to be a surrogate if that was what he needed, but not to become a victim.

He just looked at her for the longest time, turned and went back up to the stock barns. She proceeded to the house, continued with the day's routine, not letting her mind dwell on what had happened, on the words that had been spoken, the possible repercussions.

It was a good week before he started coming to her again, cautiously, with no outward sign this would be anything other than a basic loving, no, not even anything so personal, between the two of them. He came, they joined until he was through, hopefully she obtained release but in any case, he left, nothing more. They fell into that routine, and yet she knew something was lacking for him; there certainly was for her.

What he'd come to rely on, what he now denied himself because of her words, it was important to him, he needed it, but he denied it out of the shame he felt for his using her while thinking of, picturing another. How could he have been unaware that she'd always known what he was doing? Hadn't she been the one to start the role-play in the first place, when it truly had been the only way he could get release??!

She'd been sitting in the office, working on the books, when her eyes drifted toward the sideboard where the decanter set sat. She stared, thinking about when it had been delivered by her mother and grandmother, after she had been the one to deliver a similar set to Meghada. She'd taken comfort from that set, letting it be the physical evidence of her bond, even before Peter had returned to Haven. However, she had never explained the set to Peter; he was not bonded to her, though she was to him, and she had never felt things were sufficiently right between them to introduce the subject. Now, as she looked at the five decanters, the two glasses, no - three glasses, she thought, {"this might just be the answer, or if not the answer as such, a way to find the answer, at least a way to communicate. After all, it's as much my problem as it is his, probably more as it's my fear of what he intends and what that might mean for me. If I knew what he intended, and if we were using the decanters as they were intended, I'd have the right to say no, or at least to place limits. Now, my apprehension is such that I say no without knowing if it is truly necessary. That hurts both of us."}

She thought long and hard about how to broach the subject, how to explain to him; she knew it wouldn't be easy, might not be received well, but she was fast thinking it might be her only hope.

"Peter, can you spare me some time this evening?" she asked when he came in from the afternoon chores. "Perhaps after supper, in the office?" He frowned somewhat, especially since she didn't mention a particular subject she wanted to discuss, but agreed.

Maude and Marisol looked at them, cautiously; things had been so tense lately, and neither of the young ones had seemed particularly happy. The two older women just wanted things to settle down; this could work so well here, at Haven, but those two had to get themselves straightened out!

She was sitting in the chair by the desk when he moved into the room, her eyes fixed on a decanter set he'd seen previously on the sideboard. It was now on the desk, everything else having been removed. She had a glass of bourbon, her drink of choice, in her hand, looking into the amber liquor as if trying to find answers in the bottom of the glass. He could have told her, there were no answers there; he'd looked there often enough himself. His father had looked there so often, he'd drowned, and almost took everyone in the family with him.

She saw him, smiled hesitantly, and offered him a glass of whisky she had sitting on the small table beside the armchair, to which she motioned him. "Come, sit awhile, and let me share some Clan history with you, if you will." He sat, warily, accepting the glass; she seemed determined, but slightly fearful, yet hopeful. They each sipped a bit from their glass, not quite meeting each other's eyes, when she sighed deeply and began.

"This might be a solution," she said. He was smart enough, conscious enough, not to ask her the obvious question 'solution to what'.

She explained the Five Decanters, the meaning of each symbol and the promise behind each. He wasn't so much shocked as he was incredulous at the though that a woman like her would accept such differing needs in a man, (even though she'd been amazingly knowledgeable and accepting of his needs when she spent that year in London, he now recalled), and allow herself to be ruled by a man in that way. Anyway, he wasn't sure how that could help what he saw as the main problem, though all of a sudden he wasn't sure what the main problem really was, and started to tell her so, when she looked up at him with sheer determination in her face.

"The problem as I see it is that I don't know who I am supposed to be, and because of that, I don't know what rights, what responsibilities I have."

His jaw dropped in shock. {"What is she talking about??"}.

"The decanter set is intended to clarify how a love-making is to proceed, without a lot of conversation, without trying to find the right words. Sometimes words can be difficult, sometimes confusing or misleading. With these," (motioning to the glassware sitting in the middle of the desk), "the choice of WHICH decanter is always yours, Peter, and that is the way it was designed to be. When, say, you choose the second decanter, where you can demand anything, direct all that happens, Yes, I would have the right to decline upfront anything I think would make me unacceptably uncomfortable, anything I," and she just bit the bullet and said it) "fear. The problem is, what I would fear if you were taking me to bed, especially if you are unhappy with me, versus if you were taking someone else to bed, someone you're in good frame with, through me, me acting as surrogate so to speak, is quite different. Now, I freeze because I don't know who I am to be, so don't know what I can, need to rule out of the plan."

She took a determined sip from her glass and repeated her prior sentence. "This might be a solution," as she moved a third glass, jade green to line up with the blue and rose glass. "If the blue glass is you, and the rose glass is me, as me, if we add the jade glass to be me acting as the surrogate, so to speak, for another, I would know, when you hand me the glass, who you are expecting to take to bed. Well, maybe not that," with a wry smile, "but at least I'll know if it's me, or another, whether Robb, or perhaps another you had become close to; that would be sufficient, I think. That would let me know what I can use my rights to rule out. I'll feel safer, better able to welcome you as you should be welcomed, deserve to be welcomed; you will still be able to have who you need, whoever that might be, in the way you need, limited only by the agreement. Also, if I knew it was the surrogate you wanted, I could be sure to be prepared."

He looked at her, in inquiry. She smiled gently, "I could have my hair tightly bound, wear that long white dress shirt instead of a nightgown, like that first night, make sure I'm not wearing any female scent, could get some bay rum," (Hogan's preference) "or maybe some lime" (she remembered Andrew wore that) "whatever you would prefer, instead. Would know to limit contact to that which would be more fitting to the role I'm to play. That might make it better for you, even."

He sat, looking at the decanters, at the glasses, then at her, and gulped the rest of his whisky. "I've got to think on this; it sounds bloody mad, if you ask me." {"Course, the whole thing is bloody mad, me still wanting 'im, them; losing myself, trying to fool myself that way; 'er knowing, still accepting of me. Even wanting to 'elp me with that."}

She nodded, seriously. "Shall I ask you tomorrow evening, or give you more time to consider."

He looked at her. {"She really means this, to give this a try!"}. "Yes, tomorrow evening, then."

 

She dared to hope he would accept her offer, that it would provide at least the beginning of a solution. Much of the night, into the morning, she thought of the ways she could work with the jade glass, with each of the decanters and what they represented. What caveats she would feel necessary to put into place, at least at first. Of course, the concept applied to him as well, and she'd have to be sure to explain that; there could be things that, especially when using the third decanter, or even the fourth, IF he ever selected either of those two, that he simply did NOT want to have occur. There might be more to be added, if she were to experience anything really distasteful that she'd not known enough to decline in advance. There were things she could add to their practices that might prove pleasurable to him, in keeping with the role of surrogate. There were things she'd need to avoid, certain contact that could spoil his fantasy, other things that might feed it. She'd need to discuss the concept of a 'safe word' that would cause either of them to immediately cease and desist.

She'd already noticed that when he was pretending she was someone else, he was uncomfortable meeting her eyes, whether because of what he might see, or by what he though she might see, she wasn't for sure. Also, he was uncomfortable with the more intimate endearments; he could accept the more casual ones, but anything that implied truly deep feeling on her part did not go over well. Also, if he caught her eye when she was gazing at him with anywhere near the love she felt for him, he came close to panicking, she thought with more than a bit of exasperation; she'd have to work on either avoiding that (which would be painful), or at least trying to ensure he didn't catch her at it. She was twisting herself into knots for this man, that she knew full well. She also knew that, to her, he was worth the effort.

By midmorning she thought she had enough of a plan to be comfortable with starting; she spent the remainder of the morning, into the afternoon, in the library, which contained a remarkable assortment of exotic texts and a very surprising portfolio of illustrations. There was also what her cousin Maeve had described as a 'trinket' cabinet, holding various, well, she wasn't sure what to call the various items on the shelves behind those closed doors. Perhaps 'toys', perhaps, no, stick with toys, she didn't know what other words would work anyway. Those might hold promise as well.

Perhaps she could introduce him to the texts, the illustrations, with the idea that the end table in the office might be a good place to leave such, with appropriate bookmarks, on items he MIGHT be interested in trying. She could quietly check on what he had marked, take proper note of the direction. Now, that might work quite well!

She was quietly hopeful at supper that evening. She wasn't able to read anything in his behavior; he seemed slightly distracted, not unpleasant or sullen, just like his mind was far off somewhere. They played cards, the four of them, for awhile, then said their goodnights and went their separate ways. She was in her room, reading, when he knocked at the door separating her room from the office, the office adjoining his room on the other side. She opened it, to find him standing there, with a uncertain look on his face.

"Can we talk a bit?" he asked.

"Of course, always." she smiled at him.

"Did you mean it, about working with the jade glass, along with all the other?"

"Of course."

"Just 'ow do you imagine it would work?" he asked cautiously.

She sat down with him, explained what she had come up with during the past few hours (leaving out those things that really applied only to herself, what she'd have to control in herself). She showed him the books, the illustrations, the supply of bookmarks, and pointed out the end table. She even pointed out the 'trinket' cabinet, though she didn't open it or discuss it further. She explained the concept of a 'safe word' (his eyes widened to the point where she thought he'd do himself an injury at that), and made him understand that it wasn't just she that had a right to set limits, that he had those same rights, at least with the decanters that would make that an issue (that also caused him some consternation, that she might know something, introduce anything to give him pause.)

They shared a drink, he sat deep in thought, she sat silently in a big armchair, watching him through her lashes.

"Alright, let's give it a try; I still say it's madness, but maybe that's what's needed now. Tomorrow, we start tomorrow. I need time to take all this in, figure it out in my 'ead, but we'll give it a good try."

Pausing, he looked at her, "for tonight, maybe we just . . ." and looked at her with naked need in his eyes, need for her and no one else. She met his gaze, closed her eyes for just a moment to gain control of her love for him, and reached out her hand to cup his cheek.

"Yes, for tonight, maybe we just . . ." and, turning down the lights, pulled him down to the soft carpet beneath them.  
.


End file.
